Frost’s mammoth wall shelf looms in the distance like a living creature in its den, so large it feels like it’s right next to me instead of tens of feet away. Frost himself stops in front of a column of shelves that stretches all the way to touch the ceiling, like an onlooking giant and his beanstalk.
In ominous silence, I watch as he reaches inside one of the compartments, retrieving something. An object. My eyes dart to the label lining its resting place at the same time he draws it into his hand. All at once, the muscles in my arms and chest twitch with vigor. My heart strikes me from within, its frantic outburst flooding my ears and my lungs collapse under the pressure of an invisible weight.
Basic Crop No. 3.